My eyes are closed, but I can feel him approach the side of my hospital bed. Even in the fog of pain, sleep, and hospital beeps, the fog clears in my mind for a second, and I understand. Him. The one I had seen twice in my dreams, the angel of death, Azraeel.

"Do not bother to wear the face of my ancestors, malak ul mauth. I know it is you" I say. My voice is frail, ragged. My son, R, is close, but so so far. He is leaning toward me, speaking, but my ears can no longer hear in this realm.

I feel the presence next to me startle. My eyes are open, but he is in the dark, and I still cannot see. The veil. He gives a resigned sigh, and steps forward. My eyes widen. So good looking. But eerie. Silent. Other worldly. His black eyes unnatural, his hair unmoving. I am about to open my mouth and state that he lose the ruse, but he holds up a hand "You are not worthy of viewing the real me, bani adam. That is reserved for the nabuat." I bow my head in acknowledgement.  

He hesitates before speaking. How many souls is he reaping right now. He inclines his head, as if he hears my thoughts. His fake eyes, they are black windows into a vast space. "Where would you like to go" he asks. 

Heavan? Hell? Why ask me? "I am but a mortal. How can I decide what is is the decision of al Hakam" 

His voice - the voice of a 1000 voices - says again, with more weight so my entire realm shakes and my lungs squeeze with tremendous pressure. "Where would you like to go". It does not seem to be a question he asks many. 

I remember my friend N's mother. She had asked to go see all her friends, and had come to see me. And she had dreamed of flying to Makkah before then. Who would I like to go see? Then I have it. "Take me back. To when my life was not full of pain"

His dead eyes, the ones that betray his unnatural lack of humanity, burn towards me. I feel more than see his pity. It is an unusual request, but not so unusual for me. "Would you like me to take you to your childhood" we are standing next to me on the road outside my home in Karachi. I am in my pink skirt, the one my mother said was pretty. I am on my pink bike, the one with the gears. I am fearless. I am riding, it is early evening, the wind in my hair, as I zip down the road, my heart soaring with happiness. My mother stands behind me. Ami. I think. An ancient word, back from the womb. But she is too still. I am as high as her tummy, but I know this one isn't as soft as the dubbleroti doughlike softest blanket I used to put my head on and sleep, the noises from inside unbearably soothing. This being behind me wearing the body of my mother exudes too much stillness. For a moment I want give in. I am lying down in between my parents in our bed. The happiest, safest, most loved I have ever felt in my life. "Come with us" they say, pulling my arm. But it is too wrong. Their voices hold too much power. It speaks of the cosmos and eternity.

"No. take me to the beginning". 

We are sitting in a Dunkin Donuts. We are 23. I am so much in love. We don't even notice how close we are sitting, the side eyes we are getting. The coffee boys behind the counter, not much older than us, smirking and mentally high fiving Z. He's nochalantly chomping down on a coffee stirrer, his attention fully on me. I'm wearing that FM89 flood relief bracelet I just bought. He touches my arm with one finger, and the contact electrifies me, and I can feel it across time and space.

"Why do you cry al ans" he asks, curiously. I notice I have wet cheeks, salty tears dripping down my face even in this incorporeal realm. 

"This does not cause happiness. This causes deep bitterness. Whatever made me happy, I lost it all. It became my greatest and deepest sources of pain. These highs all twisted and corrupted eventually to lows. How can you show me this."

"I can take you back" he says, and briefly the hospital beeps become louder, the sharp shooting pain in my chest comes back. R is holding my wrinkled arthritic hand. I squeeze it.

"Can I go back and live from the previous time" I ask. I had died on the operating table at 23. I did not want to go back to this present.

He stays silent, but I sense the question without him asking. What would you do differently.

I live it. Waking up. Taking a different path. Living not as I lived it, without the same mistakes. No years of corporate misery. No Z. No twisted pain and horrors. A different path. A path not taken. A path without...

I gasp. "No" I shriek. A path without R is a path not worth taking.

"Where would you like to go". he asks again.

"Take me to R. Take me to him again." 

Again he communicates with the speed of thought, without needing words. There will be a lot of pain. Are you sure. You have been granted grace, going back would mean a chance to sin again. The next time I see you, you may not get such mercy.

"I will die a thousand times, for one more second with him."

I open my eyes, the doctor is saying my name in that forceful tone they have. The one that can bring you back from the dead. "There you are Mrs. N" he is saying. his face is so young, this doctor. Younger than even R. He and the nurse are working frantically on me, putting tubes, and needles, and oxygen masks on me. "We nearly lost you there maam. You have a lung embolism, which is why you are having trouble breathing" he says kindly, his hands working frantically prodding parts of me while he directs the nurse on what to push.

"Mama" R says. He is in uniform. his chin has a shadow, dark circles under his eyes, as he holds my hand, deep concern in his eyes. 

I put my hand on his face. My beautiful beautiful boy. "I love you son. Remember, I can die happy knowing that all the best parts of me live on in you". My voice doesn't seem to work. The words are rasping out, wretched. He is crying. The doctor has gestured to the nurse to stop doing what she is doing. 

I reach out and touch Rs cheek. He takes my arm. "Come mama, it's time"

I swing my legs off the bed, and my slippers are on the road outside my childhood home. The wind is in my hair. It is maghrib time. A voice somewhere far away acknowledges that this is not R holding my hand, but I choose to believe this beautiful lie because to contemplate eternity without him is unbearable. 

I walk down the street, and the ground turns to the beach. The wet sand sucks at my bare feet, the beautiful sound of the waves calls to me. And malak ul mauth who bears the face of my child but the eyes of the empty abyss of eternity, leads me on to the end. And this time, I follow.

 

Razor's Edge

He's called me in to the conference room, and the regional CEO has flown in to arrange this charade. They both beam in an avuncular manner as I enter. Old white patriarchal men. My nemesis.

I smile through the farce of introductions. We laugh through some neutral chit chat. The flight. The weather. The traffic. The coffee comes. We are all biding our time, the reason for the meeting, an elephant in the room. A weight on my chest, crushing my breath.

A problem. I'm a problem. An expensive problem. They've invested too much into this, and need to fix me because things have gotten bad.

I grit my teeth and then wait patiently. Sure enough, once the coffee is laid down, the regional CEO exits, leaving just the two of us.

He decides to smile neutrally and lean back, and doesn't say anything. 

Oh is that how he's going to play it. I don't rise to the bait. I return the close lipped smile, and stay silent too. Deadpan. Don't fidget. Don't pull out any notepad or pen. Don't sip the coffee. Just maintain eye contact in the friendzone triangle, thinking no thoughts, letting the time calmly tick by. breathe in...1... 2... 3... 4.... 5... hold...  breathe out... 6... 7... 8... 9... 10...

He lasts 30 very long uncomfortable seconds. Three breaths. He clears his throat, and says, "Well, lets begin shall we. Why don't you tell me why you think I'm here?"

That's when I pull out my notebook, and take my time opening to the right page. "Sure!" I answer pleasantly, and then hunt for a pen and pull that out. We both watch me up cap it, and write the date on top.

When I've made him wait, look up, and start before he can say anything. "So to start I think it's fairly obvious you're here because Mr. Regional Guy feels my methods and techniques are ruffling team members the wrong way."

His left temple twitches just a bit at my directness. He doesn't deny it, just keeps steadily looking at me.

I look him dead in the eye. "However, you both know, that the things I'm doing are correct." I let that sit for a few seconds. He knows it. I know it. "I will be unpopular. People get ruffled because I'm doing things differently and they don't like it. But sometimes you need to break some eggs to make an omelet."

He sits, not saying anything. Fine.

"The ask to do this while making people like me - it's difficult. The same thing that makes me good at what to do, is the exact thing that makes me bad at being nice. And in a culture that pretty much hates women, it sometimes feels like they don't like me just because I exist outside the kitchen."

"Oh come on, it's not as bad as that" he's goaded into saying. Ok I went too far with kitchen comment. Reel it in.

I look down. Too many rooms. Too many men. Too many meetings. A lifetime of being dismissed, spoken over, considered abrasive. The same words from a man - respect. From me - uncomfortable. I don't expect him to ever understand. "I've lived and worked here for too long C. This comes with the territory."

 

"Look. I may not understand the context as well as you do, but I do know people. You're smarter than this. It is counter productive to generate so much animosity. What good is suggesting a path, if no one likes you enough to want to listen to you."

Ouch.

He sees the blow land. And softens his tone "You are smart enough to find a way to figure this out."

I can't. I just cannot. "Ok sure. But how about some support. A united front. If you fan the flames you're undermining what I'm trying to achieve. Help me out. I clearly cannot do this without you and Mr. Regional CEO."

He figets now, a little uncomfortable.  His gaze shifts and he can't quite meet my eye. Shit. Someone did complain about me. That's what started it. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It takes everything in me to not ask who it was. I guess wrong it'll show I've pissed off more people then he knows. Guess right and it'll show that I knew I was fucking up but didn't resolve my shit. Fucking hell. 

He looks back up at me. In the eye. "Ok. Point noted. We could have handled it a little better."

I release a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Thank you. I'll make sure we never have to have a conversation like this again."

We both crack a smile at that. Hard part over. "That would be great. Let's get RC back in and get a plan of action in place."

Nakedfeet

I walk into the room of glittering strangers with my naked feet. Again.

This room is no different to the hells of middle school parties in karachi, except this is the middle aged aunty version in Lahore. It's month end, and a Monday, so I've been in meetings for 12 hours since 7am. I thought I'd have time to do my hair. I last ate a toast at at 827am, taking exactly 3 minutes. It is now 727pm, and I'm aleady 2 hours late to the 530pm invite. I walk in from the heat, and am instantly conscious of my hair, clearly un-blowdried in the ocean of perfect coifs. The second feeling is one of making a wardrobe mistake. Everyone is in some pastel version of green. I grabbed the first designer shalwar kameez I had that was ironed, but i now realize it was the wrong material, wrong designer, wrong bag (last seasons bottega urgh) and i stick out like a lawn spring sore thumb in a sea of some weird new chiffon, and some iteration of a crystal designer spring summer collection flats. I'm wearing the standard Cavalli I bought 5 yrs ago, I can drive and walk in them, and they're decent enough to switch from meeting to soirees, but my feet shrink just a bit in embarrassment as I'm given the head to toe and found profoundly lacking.

I take a deep breath and greet the hostess, taking a moment to thank God I grabbed the flowers some guests got yesterday along with my recycled present. She's airkissing me, looking at my hair and outfit pityingly. Her sister - weirdly also married into the same house in some kind of weird first cousin interbreeding orgy - sweetly presses a plate in my hand and makes me feel welcome. I awkwardly say my hellos, but before my ass is on the sofa they're calling me for the pictures.

I jump up, position myself on a corner perch. They all pose on their good side effortlessly, and i surpress the urge to fix my hair, a youthful stress habit my hands are still twitching to do. We take at least 25 pictures, in rounds of 5. Its nuts, but everyone takes is very very seriously. I don't bother, I just have to trust the halo effect works. 

I walk over, steeling myself for the dreaded chitchat. The photoshoot is continuing without me now, and I know they're staring daggers because I dared to break out of the mean girl clique but I'd rather do that then sit and grin like a fool for another minute. Out of the frying pan, and into a horror lined well where either I overshare, or inevitably say something weird that will cause cringe for the next 1-5 business days depending on the depravity of the situation. I latch on the former PTA president, her elder sister vibe and social skills graciously patch my ineptitude. She smiles knowingly as I check the time - she knows my insane schedule well. "Let me guess - month end?" Her husband is something senior in the middle east, I had served as technical advisor to his fund earlier. "And a monday! I'm going to do payroll from the car after this" and we both crack up.

As we're laughing I accidently bump into another someone. She grabs me and ruthlessly hugs and air kisses me thrice (so confusing who follows two vs three). "I just HAVE to come hang out in your garden darling, those pictures you keep posting are just DIVINE".  I grin, "No formality with you babe, please come over! I literally attended either your wedding. Or wait you're so little, was it your sisters?". Her elder brother - now a super famous businessman known for his car collection - was in my undergrad program albeit senior. We had attended enmasse and done all the dances, like the marasis we were.

I make my way over and finally sit, and see another acquaintance. She's on the board of the french embassy, I had recently met the ambassador at this signing ceremony for the work we're doing with the Punjab government. I tell her how there were 3 organizations signing with the minister, but the poor ambassador was so confused- and the language barrier so great - he just stood there for all the pictures. I pull out the picture and scroll through my reels - damn my emails are pinging hope its not a web app dev deployment issue - and we both howl at the sight of a serious MOU signing with the classic flags and wood and leather, and all dignitaries and one confused white man posing with no idea he wasn't supposed to be there.

We must have been too loud, because I feel the unkind beady eyes of mean girl # 1 on me. Yikes. Our kids have been enrolled in the same institution since literally age 2 Gymboree, but she has weighed me up countless times and dismissed me. I'm guessing my lack of any interest in all things she values would be the cause of it. I had once launched into the outrageous pricing strategy of Chanel doubling their Classic flap within one season, laughingly mentioning how I went intending to buy the classic only to walk out with just a wallet because they had damn well increased the price from $5500 to $10000. (I still get choked with outrage at the audacity). I think that had been the moment. We were all in one big happy class whatsapp group till around then, but then she had made a smaller offshoot group and had included me, and after that probably went ahead and made another even smaller one to make fun of me. Circles within circles. Someone or the other kept forwarding me screenshots of the vitriol, I couldn't stop laughing. "Oh darling you're looking so stressed and tired" she says like a cartoon villaness. Her side kick is missing thank God. I awkwardly take a step back, laugh and say "yesss, you know, surviving on caffiene and stress", but - poison dart delivered - she's turned away before I finish. I guess I chose my side when I decided to get educated and work, and I'm too strong a representation of all she is not - trophy wife to short nepo baby toad of a man. Her schooling, college, no real accomplishments just too threatening to her self worth. So she clings to her value system, putting me down secretly in little groups so she feels better about herself. Oh well. 

I make it out alive - there is a stunning, customized box with my name engraved on it as a giveaway - and I have no doubt it is full of thoughtful beautiful expensive things. The kind that speak of a life of effortless wealth, attention to detail, and free time. Time to get hair done, and manis and pedis and skin treatments, and swapping out the resort collection for spring summer. The tote with my first name initialed into it belongs on a beach in mallorca, I don't feel worthy. I hug and thank the sisters, and escape out the door with my nakedfeet, having survived.